


Surrender

by Winoniel



Category: The Administration - Manna Francis
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:16:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8947438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winoniel/pseuds/Winoniel
Summary: “Surrender isn’t giving up…  Surrender is letting go.”   Toreth lets go.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hpstrangelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpstrangelove/gifts).



> Hpstrangelove I hope that I hit at least a couple of your kinks! Happy Yuletide!  
>  _ETA_ I just realized that I'd uploaded the wrong story! I hope that you read this one.... Sorry for the confusion!

“Surrender isn’t giving up… Surrender is letting go.”

\------------------

“What’s going on here?” Toreth said, walking into the little gathering.

Dillian, Cele, Marcus, Asher and Greg Linton, and Warrick were lounging comfortably in the living room, drinking coffee and what appeared to be some of Warrick’s disgustingly sweet liqueurs. They had been chatting happily with bursts of laughter, until he walked into the room. While it wasn’t quite a dead quiet that fell, the conversation stilled enough that Toreth’s curiosity was piqued.

“Ah, Toreth,” Warrick said, quickly masking his surprise at Toreth’s early arrival home. “We’re celebrating Asher and Greg’s good news. They’re expecting a baby.”

Toreth smiled at the happy couple. He couldn’t care less about another sniveling brat entering the world but he knew that Warrick would become tiresome if he didn’t at least pretend to be gracious. “Is that so? Well, cheers!”

“Thanks, Toreth,” Asher said, smiling warmly. “We’re pretty excited. Greg is already starting to think of getting him on the lists of his primary and prep schools, which I understand have become pretty exclusive. I’m more focused on getting through the next few months with my meals staying on the inside after being consumed.” There was general laughter.

“Well, all the best to you both.” He nodded to them genially. There! Warrick should be happy. He’d played the housebroken pet quite nicely. Too nicely, in fact. The rising level of domesticity in the room was starting to make his teeth itch and he needed to get out of there. Continuing through the room, he started to come up with an excuse, but decided, fuck it, this was his home too. He grabbed Warrick’s wine glass, drained it, and said to the room in general, “G’night.” 

\------------------

On the prowl, he visited several haunts, nursing a drink at each one, until he saw a promising pick-up for the evening. She was fit, with auburn hair and dancing blue eyes. She had such an air of self-assurance that he itched to break her, reduce her to a begging, hungry mass. Sending her a drink in advance of his sauntering over to her, he closed his eyes and breathed a quiet sigh at the simplicity of the evening: find someone, woo someone, fuck someone. He was free to do as he wished, no thoughts for regular fucks at home, regular fucks with family and friends with whom he should sodding connect or converse, people who would pick him apart with their questions and assumptions until there was little of Toreth left.

“Is everything alright?” A high, breathless voice asked. Toreth blinked and looked across his glass, which had apparently stopped halfway to his mouth, at the redhead he’d chosen for the night.

“Yes, fine,” he said, smiling widely. He was pretty certain that she couldn’t tell how half-hearted it was.

\------------------

In the taxi on the way home, Toreth felt both satisfied and slightly on edge. Regardless of how he may have come across to Warrick’s friends, he felt a renewed sense of his autonomy. He was not some corporate boy toy, nor was he some sort of rent-a-dominant that scratched so many of Warrick’s itches. He knew that, Warrick knew that, and Warrick’s friends—at least the ones that counted—knew it, too. He didn’t have anything to prove. 

Didn’t he? He remembered Carnac’s—that bastard—parting shot after the revolt: _“I know that your parents never gave you a second's acknowledgement or approval that didn't remind you of your failure to satisfy their impossible demands. I know how deeply, and understandably, they resented their misfortune that you survived when your brother died. I know that because of them you trust exactly two people in your life, and that the only way you are capable of understanding that feeling is by trying to own them._

 _“I know that you want Keir to love you more than you have wanted anything in your adult life and that the uncontrollable need makes you sick with terror. And, finally, I know that in the end the pathetically little you have to offer Keir will no longer be enough, and he will leave you. And when that day comes, there is nothing you will be able to do to make him stay with you. You're not that good a fuck and, really, what else do you have?”_ (1)

With a sick feeling in his gut, Toreth recognized the truth of Carnac’s jibe. He did try to own Warrick, and his insatiable jealously had almost lost him his ‘regular fuck’ on a number of horror-stricken occasions. Yet there were so few ways to show his trust that Toreth could actually manage. While he had not seen his psych profile—and apparently, he was one of the few people who hadn’t—he knew his limitations. He knew why he was such a good Para-Investigator. Very few of those skills translated to those needed to develop healthy relationships.

With a smile, Toreth thought of a way that he could show Warrick how much he trusted him.

\------------------

Eyes wide, pupils dilated, breaths coming in pants, Warrick had heard him, Toreth was quite sure. With a small smile, though, he decided to repeat himself. He kept his voice low and even, needing Warrick to realize how serious he was. “I want you to do to me all of the things that you yourself like. I would like to end, of course, with you fucking me. I want you to fuck me.”

 

Blindfolded, arms chained behind his back, Toreth kneeled on the floor. His muscles taut against the bindings, his sight cut off, it seemed that both his hearing and his skin was hypersensitive. He could hear Warrick’s bare feet padding across the floor as he circled the sweating, yet shivering body. Toreth could feel the slight draft from Warrick’s dressing gown.

A hand stroked his face and a finger inserted itself in his mouth. Toreth quivered with anticipation and sucked the finger strongly. Hearing a gasp, he smiled when the finger was replaced with a heavy, dripping cock. Toreth sucked just as strongly at that member particularly when fingers combed through his hair. The fingers tightened, grasped his blond locks firmly, and the cock began to move more roughly in and out of his mouth. Toreth would have smiled in pride at how he was urging Warrick to both take control and lose it wildly from the sensations that must have been pulsing through his body. However, the hand in his hair restrained his head so that all he could do was keep some small pressure on the cock that was battering the back of his throat. He wanted to struggle, to move his head so that he could keep the pressure from gagging him, but he was being forced to hold still. He was being _forced_.

Mind reeling from the very compelling perception that Warrick could do anything he wanted to him, Toreth came to his senses. Even with the chains and the blindfold, he could still come out slightly ahead if he tried to take Warrick on right now. It didn’t make the battering in his mouth less painful, but it did allow him to relax and enjoy being controlled.

When he found his hands bound to the corner posts of the bed and Warrick’s weight holding him down, Toreth inexplicably began to struggle again. He could still breathe, and the bindings weren’t too tight, but he felt so small, so much like the young Toreth hated and controlled by cold, unfeeling parents and teachers. He felt as if he couldn’t hope to hold on to Warrick, he could barely hold himself together. Bits and pieces of himself seemed to sink into the bed or drift away. He couldn’t see, couldn’t move, he found himself unable to say anything but “Warrick,” whispered over and over and over and over. Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes and trickled into his ears, but he couldn’t tell if he was weeping for loss or weeping because he was stretching, straining for something beyond his reach, something that Valantin Toreth could never hope for.

Then a slick finger slid inside and he began to beg. “Please, please, Warrick, please, I need you inside of me.” The finger was removed but before he could cry out, a blunt, hard rod at his entrance replaced it. Sliding in, making him unbearably full—it still wasn’t enough, but he didn’t know what would be. He didn’t know what he needed. “Please, Warrick, fuck me….”

It wasn’t enough. He didn’t know. He wanted, yearned for, what? _What?_

Suddenly, Toreth knew. He stopped begging, and just whispered, “Warrick.” 

Abruptly, his blindfold was taken off and two impossibly blue eyes gazing intently into his froze him. They were demanding, loving, warm, and serious. 

And looking into them, Toreth let go.

He let Warrick take care of him, set the rhythm, pound into his arse while jerking his cock to the same agonizingly slow tempo. Shocked speechless by the physical sensations overlaying his emotional surrender, Toreth trusted Warrick to attend to him, to know what he needed and when. He trusted that even if Warrick made a wrong or unexpected or potentially undesirable choice, it was still enough to submit and let him make it.

Toreth got a little peek into what he meant to Warrick. And because of that peek, he trusted that Warrick would be there, always.

 

(1) Book Six: _First Against the Wall_


End file.
